The Red Planet eBook

“Sit down, old man,” said I. “You’re
a bit too big for me like that.” He felt
for his chair, sat down and leaned back. “You’ve
done almost everything,” I continued, “that
a man can do in expiation of offences. But there
is one thing more that you must do in order to find
peace. You couldn’t find peace if you married
Betty and left her in ignorance. You must tell
Betty everything—­ everything that you have
told me. Otherwise you would still be hag-ridden.
If she learned the horror of the thing afterwards,
what would be your position? Acquit your conscience
now before God and a splendid woman, and I stake my
faith in each that neither will fail you.”

After a few minutes, during which the man’s
face was like a mask, he said:

“That’s what I wanted to know. That’s
what I wanted to be sure of. Do you mind ringing
your bell for Marigold to take me away? I’ve
kept you up abominably.” He rose and held
out his hand and I had to direct him how it could
reach mine. When it did, he gripped it firmly.

“It’s impossible,” said he, “for
you to realise what you’ve done for me to-night.
You’ve made my way absolutely clear to me—­for
the first time for two years. You’re the
truest comrade I’ve ever had, Meredyth.
God bless you.”

He busied himself with my arrangements for the night,
and administered what I learned afterwards was a double
dose of a sleeping draught which Cliffe had prescribed
for special occasions. I just remember surprise
at feeling so drowsy after the intense excitement
of the evening, and then I fell asleep.

When I awoke in the morning I gathered my wits together
and recalled what had taken place. Marigold entered
on tiptoe and found me already aroused.

“I’m sorry to tell you, sir,” said
he, “that an accident happened to Colonel Boyce
after he left last night.”

“An accident?”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Marigold.
“That’s what his chauffeur says.
He got out of the car in order to sit by the side of
the canal—­by the lock gates. He fell
in, sir. He’s drowned.”

CHAPTER XXIV

It is Christmas morning, 1916, the third Christmas
of the war. The tragedy of Boyce’s death
happened six months ago. Since then I have been
very ill. The shock, too great for my silly heart,
nearly killed me. By all the rules of the game
I ought to have died. But I suppose, like a brother
officer long since defunct, also a Major, one Joe
Bagstock, I am devilish tough. Cliffe told me
this morning that, apart from a direct hit by a 42-centimetre
shell, he saw no reason, after what I had gone through,
why I should not live for another hundred years.
“I wash my hands of you,” said he.
Which indeed is pleasant hearing.